


A Drink To Warm The Spirits

by joufancyhuh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Satinalia, set in Haven, untrusting Lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/pseuds/joufancyhuh
Summary: Lavellan is suspicious when the Inquisition's Commander shows up outside her door, a gift in hand for the upcoming shemlen holiday.





	A Drink To Warm The Spirits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NilesDaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NilesDaughter/gifts).



> Gah, so originally I was trying for a Solavellan Nutcracker AU but it got out of hand, as most things do. I hope you like this instead. I'm sorry I'm so bad with time management.

_ Brandy _ .

 

She sniffed the bottle before handing it back to him. “I do not toast with shemlens. You forget that your spymaster threatened me into staying put for the moment. I am not here by choice, but a prisoner of circumstance.” 

 

The Commander's face twisted into exasperation, a fleeting glimpse of it before he hid beneath his mask of indifference. “I understand that it is a human holiday, but I thought you might enjoy a gift, maybe some time away from being the Herald for a night.”

 

Lavellan turned her face from his, a scowl hard-pressed into her lips. “I am not a shemlen herald,” she scoffed, but it was a faded cry, overworn but never heard. 

 

“Of course,” the Commander flustered, his cheeks glowing with that delicious pink tint she preferred to see on him. It meant power, real power and not the fake stuff the Inquisition insisted she held. No, she preferred the shemlen to guard themselves around her, to grow uncomfortable in her presence. “I'm sorry, I hadn't meant that, that is, you do…” A gloved hand scrubbed down his face as he let out a frustrated sigh. “Maker's breath, I only wanted to show my appreciation for the work you've done for the Inquisition. But I see that I am only making things worse. Forgive me, He-Lavellan.” 

 

She smiled in spite of herself, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned into the door frame of her private quarters. “I do have a first name. Not Herald or Lavellan or Knife Ear.” 

 

“Maritza,” he muttered under his breath, and it felt as though a whoosh of air came with it, spilling out his secrets into the room behind her as shivers crawled up her spine with delicate touch. It spoke of practiced nights, repeating the name to himself, paying attention to how every syllable rolled off his tongue. A prayer to his goddess, begging, needing, longing for her, seeking any opportunity to speak it. As if the name itself would conjure her and this great power she held over him. Oh, but she didn't realize how much, not yet, not until now.  

 

She nodded, her throat a little dry from the surprise confession, her voice lost to the wind of her name from his lips. 

 

The two started at each other, shock in their gazes while he rubbed the back of his neck in sheepish fashion. “I-” he began, then thought better of it, the words falling away, back into the silence from which they birthed. His eyes fell down to the long forgotten bottle of brandy in his hands. He held it up once again, out to her. “T-take it, a gift. To drink alone then.” 

 

She almost considered inviting him to share in his gift to her, let herself shine with the light of his adoration. What did she do to earn such devotion? As he turned to leave, she reached for him, her fingers running along the cuff of his shirt before circling his wrist. “Commander Rutherford, a minute?” 

 

This time, he chuckled, the first confident sound to come from him since his shadow crossed her doorstep. “Please, call me Cullen.” 

 

First names for them both. Was she getting friendly with a shemlen? No, of course not. She blamed the cold for the sudden desire to not feel so alone, locked in her cabin as she customarily spent her days back in Haven. No, not friends but something a little more than acquaintances. 

 

“Cullen then.” His name lacked the art of her own, clumsy and full on her tongue. She stepped aside, wishing to know why the interest in her, what about her intrigued him so? Instead, she raised up the bottle. “I want to know more about this Satinalia you celebrate. If it seems I am stuck here for the time being, perhaps I should not be so callous.” 

 

“It comes understood… Maritza. Your kind has not been so graciously treated by my own.” He stepped in, and after some debate which she watched play out across his features, he shut the door behind him. 

 

“And would that be the elvhen or mages?”

 

Another laugh. “Fair enough.” And he smiled, bright as the sun-snow that glittered across the hills of this wretched coldscape. Beautiful but warning of danger, and she heeded the omen, backing away to find them both glasses in the small cupboard. Not her things, but put there by the cabin's owner before her. She came with very little, only the clothes on her back, plus a few trinkets sent by her clan. Her hand fell to one of them sitting beneath the cabinet, tracing the back of the wooden halla the Keeper's son carved for her to remember them by. 

 

Her clan, how far away they felt to her now. Did the Keeper replace her yet as Second? She but a memory to them? It would be practical to find another mage in the clan, teach them the ways while she wasted away here in the Frostbacks. 

 

“I don't wish to intrude…” Cullen's voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, reminding her of his presence. He shifted uncomfortably, still standing by the door. 

 

Forcing a smile, she walked over to the hearth, taking one of two armchairs in front for herself and waving a full hand at the other. “Perhaps I can break my rule this once and share a drink.” 

 

His eyes sparkled at the insinuation there, that he crept further under through the wall of her defenses. A scowl formed, one she hid in her shoulder as she poured them both a glass. A gift… she turned the bottle over in her hand, giving a quick skim over the label. Antivan, by the name of it. 

 

Alcohol gave way to weakness, her Keeper's words. One should never drink it in the company of enemies, nor during a time of war. It dulled the senses, spilled secrets, made one foolish and prone to errors. 

 

Did the Commander wish her to open up to him, spill poetry from her lips for him to bathe himself in while basking in her bareness? No, she would not give the satisfaction. 

 

Shrugging off his coat and laying it over the top of the chair, he sank into the seat, gracious as he accepted the glass held out to him. She waited for him to take the first sip before imitating the motion. 

 

“So tell me about Satinalia.” 

 

He launched into a long-winded explanation, the parties, the wearing of masks, the large feasts. She asked questions when prompted but otherwise stayed quiet, studying the small quirks of him talking, his animated gestures, the brimming edge of excitement in his voice that he failed to suppress, though he made the effort to try. He spoke of how he celebrated with his siblings growing up, the small gifts they exchanged with one another. 

 

By the time he finished speaking, the darkness of night claimed the sun while the bottle on her table sat half-empty due to her constant refreshing of his glass. She found she didn't mind the distraction, nor the warmth emanating from the hearth, or him, or perhaps the conversation, finding herself laughing at times, hand covering her lips to hide the wide grin there. 

 

His hand returned to the back of his neck as he glanced out the window, noise from outside ramping up for the night of festivities. “It's late. I should leave.” 

 

She stared down into her own untouched glass, a heavy sadness sagging her shoulders. A longing of its own came from his bid to leave, a creeping loneliness whispering through her veins. Gods, how nice a friend felt after so long keeping herself in isolation.

 

_ A friend.  _

 

Was that who Cullen was to her now? A shemlen companion? Who was she becoming? 

 

She walked him to the door, his cheeks burning hot with drink. As the two stood by the open path back to outside, she caught a few curious glances from some of the soldiers, though the masks they wore hid their identities. 

 

Cullen cleared his throat. “If you change your mind…” He slipped out a lovely gold-painted fox mask from his cloak and placed it in her hands. “For the--for the festivities. In case you want to join us. We… we're trying to get better, improve. I know we have a long way to go, with elves, with mages, the templars.” An unsaid  _ you _ lingered between them, an open end to his sentence. 

 

She stared into the ornate mask as he walked away, deciding he embarrassed himself for one night. When the door closed behind her, she turned it over in her hands, considering his words carefully. Perhaps not all shems were so bad. Maybe they all needed that second chance to become someone new, someone better. Gods knew she had her own share of bad traits. 

 

She closed her eyes as she slipped the mask into place. 


End file.
